Deeply Cut
by Sangwaelen
Summary: Set right after Frodo's parents die. Frodo's pain runs so deep that even he doesn't understand it. Rating for mild angst. Updated weekly.
1. Severed

**Disclaimer:** You know the drill. They aren't mine, and I'm not making any money off of this. **Authors Note:** Okay, I should be working on my other chaptered fic, but I've been writing a lot of fluff, I needed some angst to balance it out. The title has a double meaning which will be shown in later chapters. Oh, this will be a short fic. Probably no no more than two or three chapters.

** Deeply Cut  
by Sangwaelen**

A young hobbit sat uncomfortably between his crying aunt and teary eyed uncle, and stared into the waves of faces streaked with tears. _I should be crying_, he thought with guilt, and slumped lower in his chair. His uncle noticed and pulled the lad up by his collar.

"Come now Frodo, sit up straight. Nearly a teenager." Frodo scowled, willing his tears come, but they would not. His aunt Esmeralda could hardly stifle her sobs with her hand, and her eyes were wet. Being only twelve, Frodo did not realize that his grief ran far deeper than tears. It was like a knife that cut so deeply it severed the nerves, and he felt no pain, only numbness. At least, as long as the nerves were damaged. The lad gazed across the hall, looking at his favorite uncle, or cousin, he wasn't sure. He refused to look at the two bodies between them, though they were hidden in their simple caskets. 

He and his aunt, sister to his now deceased mother, led the procession outside. Frodo felt like cursing the sky for not being grey, but the deepest blue he had ever seen in his short life. _If I cannot cry for my parents, why should I expect the sky to join in as well?_ As the caskets were lowered into the ground, Frodo caught Bilbo's eye. The blank, empty expression on the lad's did not leave the older hobbit's mind for days. 

After the final handful of dirt had been cast upon the graves, all of Brandy Hall was filled again, with the bustling of many hobbits. While there were still a few tears to be shared, there were also happy memories and, of course, food. Frodo found a chair and sat down, soon to be surrounded by the sympathetic and relatives, both close and distant. He curled himself into a ball, his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms crossed over his eyes, so all that was visible was his crown of curly, dark hair.

"Esme, I do worry a bit about that lad," Bilbo said, nodding toward Frodo. Esmeralda followed Bilbo's nod, her eyes still glassy with tears.

"Oh, Bilbo, I don't know what to do. Did you know he hasn't spoken a word to anyone since we gave him the news?"

"Well, that doesn't seem too unusual. It would be a horrible shock to lose your parents at such a young age, and it has been only a few days."

"I suppose, but, oh, he hasn't even cried, not even a small sob, and his eyes are blank. They lost the spark they had, as if his inner fire had gone out." She blew her nose and ran her hands through her hair, obviously worried.

"No, Frodo still has some light in him yet, and he's a young lad. He'll bounce back, he just needs time to grieve," Bilbo reassured her, though he was not sure he trusted the sound of his own voice. "Maybe I should try to talk to him, yes? But not now, no, he may need some time to just be alone." As if he had heard Bilbo, Frodo uncurled his body and stretched slowly, then headed for the door, and succesfully got past the tangle of relatives and friends still trying to comfort him. _I hope he doesn't head for the river,_ Bilbo said, a hint of fear running through his limbs. _No, Frodo isn't a stupid lad. He's a Baggins, for goodness sake!_ Still, there were tales of hobbits so overcome with grief that...but those were just tales, though Bilbo knew that tales could often contain a large amount of truth. He made sure that Esme was occupied with someone else, grabbed his overcoat and followed the lad.

Frodo sat at the edge of the steps of Brandy Hall, tugging aimlessly at the buttons of his vest. He was wearing the clothes he was meant to wear on his thirteenth birthday, to celebrate the beginning of the long road to adulthood. Esmeralda had removed the golden buttons (a gift from Bilbo, no doubt) and replaced them with black so he could wear it to his parents' funeral. He put his face in his hands, breathing hard, but producing no tears. A small fit of coughing made him snap his head up and around, his eyes narrowed. They widened immediately, as if in apology, when he saw the culprit.

"Sorry, my lad. Just came out for a bit of a smoke, see?" Bilbo held up an old pipe, worn but familiar in his hand, and struck a match to light it. "Too full of people in there to enjoy it properly. I miss my old Bag End sometimes, I forget that most hobbits don't lead such solitary lives." Frodo only shrugged in reply. "Harumph..." Bilbo sat next to the lad, not saying anything for a bit. They sat in silence, and if it hadn't been for the familiar scent of Old Toby wafting through the air, Frodo wouldn't have known Bilbo was still there. They sat there together for what seemed an unmeasurable amount of time, one grieving for those long past and another grieving for one that seemed to have ended life before it had begun.

As the sun sank below the treeline and the din in the hall lowered to a murmur, Bilbo got up and stretched his stiff legs. Several hobbits were staying at Brandy Hall that night, including he, but most had retired to bed early, being exhausted from crying or comforting.

"Come now, Frodo, we best be getting inside before your aunt misses you." Frodo rose wordlessly and followed Bilbo inside, his head hung low, but eyes still dry. 

---


	2. In Need of Solitude

The next morning Frodo awoke to a grey sky, which he had thought would be more suitable to his mood, but it wasn't. _Perhaps if everything was blank, all white, perhaps _then_ it would match how I feel,_ he supposed as he pulled a wrinkled shirt out of a trunk and then over his head. He had packed hastily, leaving behind the small smial he has shared with his parents and being moved to the crowded Brandy Hall immediately. His uncle had returned later with a few of his other things and set them around the small room Frodo shared with two cousins, but it did nothing to make it feel like home, and Frodo had hidden them under some trousers in his trunk. The two mussed beds next to his promised privacy, at least for a little while, as the hobbit children had their breakfast. He leaned down and pawed through the clothes, retrieving the precious items.

He layed them out on the wooden floor, just so he could look at them again. A carved wooden box that had served as his mother's jewelry box held his mother's locket, a curl of hair snipped from both her husband and her son.

"See, Frodo, this way I always have you close to my heart," she had said, putting the locket on her delicate throat. His father had a pin that was quite similar, holding a lock of light brown hair nestled around a darker, smaller one. A few books that had been housed in the smial's small library and other minor trinkets were strewn around him, but he held the pin and locket close to his chest. _These should go to Aunt Esme,_ he thought, but held them tighter. Waves of an dull, aching pain ran through him, but his eyes remained steady and unwavering.

"Frodo?" A soft knock accompanied the voice. Frodo gathered his things quickly and threw them in the trunk, but put the jewelry in his trouser pocket. The door opened and Bilbo's head appeared. "Frodo? I was thought you might be hungry, so I saved something from those voraciously hungry cousins of yours." He carried a small tray, laden with toast, butter, a jar of jam and a cup of tea. Frodo nodded his thanks and accepted the tray, though he didn't feel like eating. As he sat down and with the meal, the locket slipped out of his pocket.

"Hmm, what do we have here?" Bilbo asked, leaning over to scoop it up. When Frodo realized what had happened, his eyes glazed over with fear. He didn't want to give up the locket. "Ah, I remember this. Well, now, you had better put it on so you don't drop it like that again. Ah, look! This pin is small, it will fit in the locket. Come here, lad, I'll help you with this small clasp." After Frodo had tucked the locket into his shirt, Bilbo clutched his own precious thing, also hanging on a chain and hidden under his clothes.

  
  
With a little coaxing, Bilbo managed to get Frodo out of his room and to the main dining area of the hall, which was even busier than usual, with the bad weather keeping young hobbits inside. Many of the older hobbits had decided to avoid going outside as well, for it seemed a storm was well on it's way. The wind whipped the thin trees against Brandy Hall's small windows, and soon rain blurred all vision of the outside world. Frodo felt trapped. He eventually wandered away from Bilbo, walking through the winding halls of the large smial, but he couldn't escape the sympathetic eyes that followed him everywhere, often accompanied with kind words or stories of his parents. He didn't want to think, and he didn't want to remember, and he didn't want anyone's words. He knew they meant well, but being reminded of what had happened only let pain in, and all he wanted was that deadened feeling, the endless white. He couldn't even retreat to his room, for it had become a place for some of his younger cousins to make forts and shriek at the occasional claps of thunder. He found a little used exit and grabbed a cloak that hung on the peg posted near the door. It was far too large for him, and probably belonged to his uncle Saradoc, but it was warm and would hopefully keep out the rain. Frodo looked behind him to make sure no one saw, and slipped outside to have only the sad sky for company. 

"Bilbo? Bilbo, oh, there you are!" Esmeralda caming running when she saw the hobbit, a look of panic in her eyes.

"What is it, Esme? What happened?" Bilbo saw that she was scared, but hoped she wouldn't cause mass hysteria over something small. She was still ridden with grief of the loss of her sister.

"Frodo...he...No one has seen him for over an hour, and the storm is getting worse! We're afraid he may have left the hall. We had hoped he was with you, or that you at least knew where he was."

"No, I haven't seen him for nearly two hours, now. Are you sure no one has seen him?" She nodded, eyes brimming with tears once again. "No, no, don't cry. You need to help me, Esme, do you understand?" He said firmly, talking to her as if she were a young hobbit lass that needed instructions. She nodded again. "I need you to help me gather hobbits to begin a search party. Be discreet about it, and don't frighten the younger ones." She nodded again and left with a purpose. Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his fingers to his temples, praying to Eru that Frodo's grief wouldn't lead him to the river.

---

  
**Author's Note:** I'm sorry about the premature update, but it had to be done, because I screwed something up. It's kind of complicated, so I won't explain. 


	3. Drowning in Grief

The rain was falling hard, and it stung when it hit bare skin. The cloak Frodo had borrowed was too long and very cumbersome, but he kept walking, not knowing exactly where he meant to go. He had fallen more than once, either slipping in mud or tripping over the trailing cloak, and he was covered in mud and small cuts. It was nearly as dark as night, though it was hardly midday, and the rain blurred Frodo's vision further. Somehow during his slow trek to anywhere, the chain on the locket he wore had snapped, and then slipped out of his shirt and into the mud. He hadn't noticed because he was numb from cold and grief. Lightning illuminated the world in an eerie glow for a moment, and Frodo cried out. 

He eventually made his way to the thicket of trees that lined the Brandywine, now churning and sputtering brown water in small but dangerous waves. He slowly worked his way through the trees, many of them stripped of their leaves and swinging branches violently through the air. Some hit Frodo's face, but their sting was barely felt, and the blood mixed with the rain and mud, forming a grotesque mask. Soon he reached the muddy bank of the river, and sat and stared for a moment. As he reached for his locket he lost his balance and tumbled down the bank. 

  
"Saradoc, have you seen any sign yet?" Bilbo yelled over the roaring rain. He held a latern high, but it didn't even being to pierce the darkness that had fallen over Buckland.

"Not yet, not yet! I think the rain may have washed all signs away, especially light hobbit prints." Fear crept out of Bilbo's heart and into his throat. A flash of lightning managed to do what his latern could not, if only for the time it took to take a breath, and something glinted near his feet. He stooped down to pick it up, and realized that it was Frodo's mother's locket, the chain broken. Then, he heard a faint cry above the rain, coming from the river bank. _No!_ He dropped the lantern, pocketed the locket and sprinted toward the Brandywine, ignoring the calls from the other hobbits of the search party. 

  
Frodo had fallen into the river, but had managed to catch his right hand on a large rock that saved him from floating haphazardly down the Brandywine, at least for the time being. He hadn't escaped injury though, and blood poured from the hand that gripped the rock. He struggled to pull his other numb arm out of the water and onto his only hope, and eventually succeeded, though he was weary. The cloak pulled at his neck and was weighing him down, putting more stress on his already aching arms. He had been shivering from the cold, but soon his teeth stopped chattering and he felt his panic slipping away into a quiet, dark calm.  


"Frodo! Frodo!" Bilbo screamed until his throat was raw, tears streaming down his face along with rain. _No good crying, now FIND HIM,_ he said, berating himself. He struggled through teh trees as Frodo had, and saw a slide in the mud about ten feet from where he stood. The sky was filled with temporary light once again, and he saw a small figure clinging to a rock at the edge of the river. Stumbling through mud, rocks and twigs he made his way toward it. "Frodo!" _Now, be careful, you old fool. It'll do you niether of you any good if you fall in as well._ He walked down the slippery bank very slowly, occasionally loosing his footing. He saw the lad clinging for dear life, though there was obviously weariness in his eyes.

"Da?" Frodo mumbled as he felt a hand on his. He opened his eyes slowly, as if he were waking from a dream. Suddenly it all rushed back to him, and he was angry at Bilbo for pulling him out of the warmth and back into the painful cold.

"No, no, it's me, Bilbo. Come on lad, we must get you out of here!" Bilbo noticed the cloak and pulled out a small knife he had brought with him, being careful not to knick the lad's throat. Soon the heavy weight of the cloak fell away from Frodo, and Bilbo began to drag him to safety. He had to be cautious, for the edge of the bank was saturated with water and unsturdy. He nearly fell in himself, but he managed to pull Frodo out of the water and up to safer, though not drier, land.

"Bilbo...I...oh..." Frodo began, and suddenly broke down in gasping sobs, wracking his entire body.

"Shhh, shh, Frodo, my lad. I know, I know," Bilbo whispered soothingly, as he took off his cloak and wrapped Frodo in it.

  
Esmeralda and several of the search party members weren't beyond breaking down in tears when they saw Bilbo coming up the stairs, staggering under the weight of the lad. His shirt was stained with blood from the wound on Frodo's right hand, and both wore haggard expressions and faces streaked with mud.

"Get him warm, he's been out in the cold too much, and bind that hand. It's a nasty wound," Bilbo said, before he himself collapsed on the floor of Brandy Hall. 

---

**Author's Note:** Nope, this is not the end, not quite yet. One more chapter to go! 


	4. The Significance of Scars

"Oh, leave me be, Esme, I'm right as rain. I've been through worse," Bilbo complained hoarsely, as Esmeralda tried to get him to eat something.

"You are not, Bilbo! Stop being so stubborn and at least drink some broth." She held up a spoon to his mouth, and he gave her a look similar to an indignant child.

"I am NOT a child, I can feed myself, when I feel the need to eat. I just need a bit of rest and some solitude, is all." 

"All right, then, you miserable hobbit! Frodo is a far better patient than you are," she said, finally surrendering, but not leaving the room.

"How is the lad, anyway? Has he talked yet?" Esmeralda smiled.

"Only to ask to talk to you." This time Bilbo smiled, and settled down in his bed.

"Now, scoot, and give a weary hobbit his rest!"

  
  
Not a day later was Bilbo up and about again, though his throat was still a bit sore. He made it over to Frodo's room, one of his own, at least until he was well again. The lad was sleeping, his dark curls splayed across the linen pillow case and his mouth slightly open. Bilbo's brow furrowed when he realized there were tear stains on the pillow. He tried to sit down quietly, but the old chair squeaked, and Frodo stirred.

"Oh, it's you." Bilbo peered into the grey eyes that stared back at him, eyes that seemed to have aged several years over a few days, but at least they were no longer empty and flat.

"Yes, it's me. How do you feel, lad?" Frodo looked up, his lower lip trembling. "No longer numb, I see." Frodo broke out into sobs and buried his face in his hands. Bilbo came up to his bed and squeezed the lad's shoulder. "No shame in crying, you know."

"I feel...I feel like I have a wound, here," Frodo said, pointing to his chest with his bandaged hand, "and it's a wound that will never heal. You can't see it, but I can feel it, like a black space around my heart."

"Well, Frodo, my lad, that's to be expected. You've lost more than you could knew you had. It doesn't seem like it, but it will heal, I promise you." Frodo's eyes darkened.

"I thought you would understand." Bilbo chuckled, and the lad looked bewildered and hurt.

"Oh, I do understand. I've lost many friends, but they're still here, in my heart, where no one can touch them, not even death." Frodo groped at his chest, feeling for something that was not there.

"I lost the locket, Bilbo. It must have fallen off while I was in the river. First I lost their souls and bodies to the Brandywine, and now the only thing that was truly left of them." With that, he began to cry again, though silently.

"Oh, you mean this?" Bilbo held out the locket, on a new, thicker chain. Frodo began to cry again, harder, but tears of joy mixed in with the bitter grief. "I found it while I was looking for you. That thin chain wasn't made for the rough tumbling of healthy hobbit lads." Frodo nodded and whispered a 'thank you' through his tears as Bilbo handed him the locket.

  
Soon Frodo was healthy once again, and though not as merry as the other lads his age, depth had returned to his eyes, and he once again had and interest in life. Bilbo returned to Bag End, but visited as often as he could. The wound on Frodo's right hand healed nicely, but it had cut deeply, and a scar rapped around from his first knuckle to the middle knuckle on the third finger. On the days Frodo felt himself missing his parents miserably he would sit and stare at the scar. Scars could be nothing more than a reminder, or they could be something more important, Bilbo had told him. The finger bore the scar as long as the hobbit bore the finger.

---


End file.
